Blaze

by Andrew Thorp King

  Trying to weed through all the Persian natives in attendance and locate Hamid was a challenging task. It was going to be much easier of course for Hamid to seek out the very few white people in attendance and locate Zack, whose nametag deceptively read Douglas Schmidt.

  Zack stopped to graze a bit at one of the spreads that was laid out for the event. He had a few servings of dukkah with some pita bread choosing not to sit at a table but to stand out in the open and be as visible as possible. He washed the spicy dukkah down with some doogh, a refreshing drink that contained yogurt and carbonated water and had a nice salty, minty flavor to it. It was a strange and somewhat exotic drink that made him think of the ‘fizzly bubbly’ drink from Adam Sandler’s movie Don’t Mess With the Zohan. Zack may be half Jewish, and whole spy, but he wasn’t about to live out the Zohan movie and start hairdressing and copulating with old ladies anytime soon.

  Finally, after loitering around the table for a few minutes after his snack, a slender man with a close-cropped beard, caramel skin, and jet black hair began pointing at him excitedly and walking fast towards him.

  “Douglas Schmidt? From Twitter in America? Is that you?” The moment was here.

  “Hamid! I finally meet you in person! I’m so excited to be here and to see you face to face. This is such an amazing and important event. I can’t believe I’m actually here.” Zack was on.

  “Brother Douglas, you have no idea. This conference is a window into the future. A bright future without America and the Zionist. Just wait until you hear President Samani’s speech!” Hamid’s eyes were aflame.

  “I’m eager to hear them. Aryans from all around the world need to unite to help make this vision a reality. I’m so glad to be here with you. Should we go find our seats for the presentation?” Hamid agreed they should. So far, Doug Schmidt was a hit with Hamid.

  They took their seats and watched some ceremonial shenanigans for a while before Samani’s speech began. There were some messages from some well-known Imam’s and some skits and such that resembled variety show acts of sorts. Eventually the headliner took stage.

  Samani was his usual self, but with more pointed words than normal. He was in his element and was there to cement his vision of the world in the minds of those that most faithfully upheld his worldview. The backdrop was an upgraded version of the same visual they had displayed since the conference’s inception. It displayed a ball wrapped in the American flag having dropped through an hourglass. The ball was shattered as it hit the bottom. Falling right behind the American-flag draped ball was a ball adorned in the Star of David. The image was spruced up with some modern graphic design trimmings, but the main thrust was still clear: a world without America and Israel was coming, and possible. Not only was it coming, but the sequence of this expulsion was also clear. America had to be destroyed first, then Israel would naturally follow. After all, America was the ‘big Satan’ and Israel only the ‘little Satan’.

  The rhetoric that Samani spewed was more of the same. He delivered the same message as his predecessor Ahmadinejad had but with a lot more flair and charisma. He drew upon the struggle of the Palestinians, the arrogance and decadence of the west, the apostate nature of Christianity and Judiasm, and Iran’s strategic plan to bring the West to it knees. He reiterated that they had well-drawn plans on how to attack over thirty sensitive sites in the US and at least a dozen in Israel. He scoffed at the impotence of the economic sanctions that had been imposed upon them. He repeatedly heralded the glory of the Mahdi and insisted He was already here and had made himself known to Samani. It was not just America and Israel that found themselves liquidated in Samani’s new world Islamic vision. It was also Britain, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, France, and Germany. They would also naturally be destroyed in short order according to Samani’s apocalyptic plan. Zack had heard it all before. Arrogant Anglo-Saxons bad, righteous Islamic faithful good. Blah, blah, blah. If only Samani’s words truly didn’t have any real effect on anything or anyone. Zack knew better. He sat there listening to every word with the English sub titles supplied by the video monitor to the left of the stage. Hamid would glance over to Zack every few minutes or so looking for excitement in the eyes of his newfound Aryan brother. Zack made sure Hamid was not disappointed.

  When the intermission presented itself, Zack followed Hamid into the lobby for some tea. The two men shared each other’s stories as to how they grew so passionate about their Aryan heritage and how they had developed deep convictions that it was something to preserve and fight for. Zack stuck closely to his pre-fab story and Hamid told his honest one. At one point, Hamid asked Zack why he was not affiliated with any Aryan groups in the states.

  “Most of the Aryan groups in the states think small. They don’t think internationally. They digress into detestable activities of organized crime to survive. They’re an embarrassment to any real ambition to dignify and elevate the Aryan cause. That’s why they’re powerless and get nothing done but running prostitutes and selling drugs and leading half their members into prison. If we’re to really achieve goals such as the ones laid out today by your President Samani, we need big thinking from smart, globally minded people.”

  Hamid was mesmerized by Zack’s ability to posit a broad brush, big picture perspective on a path to global Aryan dominance. He was finding himself enamored with this Doug Schmidt.

  “Your words are spoken with much thought and wisdom. You should attend our NINP meeting this week while you are here in Iran. We have one two days from now. Will you be able to attend?”

  Now we are cooking with gas. This was what Zack was hoping for. “Absolutely, it would be an honor and a great privilege! I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHINCOTEAGUE, VIRGINIA

  G allagher wasn’t kidding when he said this fella lived out in the middle of nowhere. His address did not show up on any GPS system that Blaze had tried to access. Blaze regrettably resorted to the directions he had written down from Gallagher’s dictation. He followed them meticulously and found himself finally getting to what he imagined was close to this old man’s dwelling place.

  He traveled rough dirt roads bordered by wild brush growing in thick mud beneath. The passages leading to the house were narrow and limiting. They discouraged unwanted or unexpected visitors. Swamp-like land peppered the areas leading up to the house. Gallagher said he was a strange old dude. The ‘Yoda’ moniker was making more and more sense to Blaze at each turn he took through the swampy island woods.

  Finally, he made his way to the small dirt driveway in front of Yoda’s modest house. There were random auto parts, antique junk, and motorcycle parts littered all around the property. Yoda’s joint looked like a picker’s dream. An old gas station pump stood proudly out front of the small shack that sat adjacent to his home. One old pick up trick sat in the driveway on cinder blocks. Bumper stickers on the truck read ‘Rapture Ready’, ‘Keep Your Friends Close and Your Guns Closer’, and one had the American Flag on it with the word ‘Redneck’ on the red stripe, ‘White Trash’ on the white stripe, and ‘Blue Collar’ on the blue stripe. Yoda must have heard Blaze’s vehicle pulling up because he immediately emerged from his front door and stood out on his porch peering at his arriving visitor.

  Hunter ‘Yoda’ Davis was one weird dude. He stood out on his porch wearing blue jeans, suspenders, and a wild life tee shirt with a raccoon on it. He wore a baseball cap with an American flag patch. The hat contained a hell of a lot of flair as well, with all kinds of military buttons. Hunter Davis earned the name Yoda because his mere existence, the aura of his residence and its surroundings, and even his white hair and grizzly aged skin, brought to mind an earthly redneck version of the olive green, intergalactic patriarch of sci-fi cinema.

  “You must be Mr. McIntyre.” Yoda walked slowly down his front porch steps to greet Blaze as he got out of his truck.

  “That’s right. Pleased to meet you Mr.
Davis. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “I’m sure it’s all exaggerated and the stuff of false legends and trumped up folklore. As far as you know.”

  “As far as I know.” The two men both chuckled and strangely Yoda waived Blaze on to follow him into the shack besides the house. Blaze wasn’t sure what to think, but followed him all the same.

  “Step inside here Mr. McIntyre. This is my workshop. I built this after I lost my family, a story I may tell you about some other time.” Blaze nodded his head and began looking around the inside of the shack. His eyes widened with the beauty of what he saw. The shack was stuffed to the gills with the most beautiful and diverse wooden bird and duck carvings he had ever seen. This was no ordinary decoy maker.

  Yoda continued, “After I lost my precious wife and young children, I retreated into solitude, as one would expect. As you have, Blaze. In that solitude, I went through terrible pain and unspeakable misery. I let it linger much longer than I should have, but I hadn’t had anyone in my life really reach out and attempt to pull me back into the world. There was no Chuck Gallagher in my life lobbying for some sort of help for me.” Yoda paused and turned his head staring at some of his favorite decoys.

  Blaze asked, “So what did you do?”

  “Well, the only positive thing I had to hold onto to purge my pain, occupy my time, and help me rediscover some beauty in life was what took place in this shack. Birds and ducks Mr. McIntyre. Birds and ducks. I spent mostly evenings in here enjoying the peacefulness of the night. The stillness of the night. Nothing but the sound of the crickets and the swamp critters to fill my ears. No sunlight to taunt me with hope that I hadn’t yet been able to welcome. But I had these blocks of wood, these carving tools, and an indescribable attraction to the beauty of birds and ducks. I carved and painted like mad. Sometimes spending the entire night in this shack and returning to my bed at dawn to sleep all day.”

  “And that did the trick?” asked Blaze.

  “For me, yes. It was beyond therapeutic. It was a spiritual endeavor. I was like a redneck monk cast away in the swampy woods creating the only thing that made me feel like a human being again. Every time I completed a bird or a duck and put the finishing touches of paint on them, a piece of me healed and a part of my soul re-united with God.”

  “How long did this go on for?” Blaze asked—now fully emerged in Yoda’s life story.

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know exactly how long, but it was well over a year and half. I didn’t talk to a single soul outside of a few ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ to the good folks at the market. I had pulled the plug on interacting with other people. I wasn’t ready, or I chose not to be ready. Either way, my healing process took a lot of time. Time I now regret I took. You see, as imperative and necessary as that process was, I enjoyed it too much and I made excuses for myself constantly so I could continue to justify delaying getting back into life. This is a mistake you mustn’t make.”

  “And now?”

  “Now? Well, now I still do live as a recluse. I know that. And to a large degree, I still am, and I struggle with that instinct. But I force myself to regularly get together with friends, I continue to consult with the CIA and do anything they ask of me, within reason, for which my experience can be of value. I write all the time and am on the verge of releasing my first memoir about my years in the field—all of course, to be thoroughly cleared and rubber-stamped by Langley. And I meet all kinds of people all over this great country who come here to buy my carvings. That internet is one hell of a sales tool.” Yoda turned his eyes away from his hanging wooden birds now to look Blaze square in the eyes. He then continued, “My point is, Blaze, you gotta push through the pain. You gotta get back in life’s game before the opium of seclusion sucks you away and makes it harder for you to ever get back on life’s wagon. You were left to live for a reason. Even though with your loss it doesn’t seem your life is worth much to you. Know that those feelings are lies, Blaze. The good Lord has got a plan for you, and from what I hear of your abilities, He likely has a lot of plans for you.”

  Blaze had heard his words and was internalizing them as quickly and as deeply as he could. He waited for a pause in Yoda’s story and asked, “Mr. Davis, if you don’t mind me asking, could you tell me exactly what happened to your family? Mr. Gallagher never did tell me exactly, only that it was similar to what happened to mine.”

  Yoda looked at Blaze and then slowly put his head down. He then looked Blaze in the eye, and nodded his head. He began to respond, “Well, it was a long time ago, so I’m not going to go into much detail Mr. McIntyre, I hope you understand. Let’s just say that it was during the cold war and I was instrumental in helping America win that war. The KGB didn’t like that. So much so, that they found their way stateside and picked off my wife and children one by one. That’s all I care to recount on the matter at the present time.”

  “Understood. I’m not sure if I could say much about what happened to my family either. Thank you for sharing with me.”

  There was silence for about thirty seconds or so as both men stared off into the trees not knowing what to say, or if they should try to say anything more at all. The silence spoke volumes of the pain each man had endured, and continued to endure.

  Eventually, Yoda broke the silence and asked Blaze if he cared to have a drink and a cigar with him on his porch. Blaze obliged and the two men fired up their stogies and drank a glass of bourbon as the sweet southern breeze mercifully began to pick up on the muggy, summer evening.

  The conversation digressed into much less heavy subjects as the night proceeded. Both men were content to have hashed out the heavy stuff first. Now they were simply trading war stories, discussing past strategic approaches, and solving the world’s problems one at a time.

  After a while, Blaze had said his goodbyes, expressed his gratitude and vowed to keep in touch. Blaze was inspired by Yoda’s past, the wisdom he had gained, and the responsibility he took to pass on his wisdom to a new generation of spies and warriors. Blaze thanked God that Gallagher had urged him to see Yoda. It had truly been an ordained meeting that helped to lift the veil of darkness from Blaze’s eyes. Hope was again tangible. His will to live was once again indomitable. His purpose became clear. His sorrow transformed into a motivation to stalk America’s enemies—the enemies that killed his wife and son. He would avenge. Deep within him, a thirst for revenge had now taken root. And he was determined to quench it. He felt invigorated and emboldened.

  It was almost as if the force was with him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  BUSHEHR, IRAN

  If one looked closely, the signs of long imprinted damage from wars gone by would be evident. The war with Iraq had left its stains on the city of Bushehr. Most living in the city and the surrounding fishing villages had cleared their minds of either their direct memories or the created impressions passed down by the stories of their elders, but physical signs still remained for those interested. Life in Bushehr and its surrounding villages did have its drudgery. The heat was tormenting and relentless. The brine hung in the air with an almost tangible quality as a constant reminder of the proximity to the ocean. Most spent their days minding their daily catch of fish and going about their business in Halileh, Bandargeh, and in and around Bushehr. Most also paid very little attention to the daily work that was being done at the Bushehr nuclear facility, the main focal point for the world outside of Iran when it came to their immediate geography.

  Azad was feeling very important lately. His career had really reached its zenith and his work at Bushehr was exhilarating and wildly fulfilling. He was progressing by leaps and bounds towards his objectives, and more importantly, towards the goals of the regime. They actually were now calling him directly for status reports, to clarify technical issues, and to encourage him with his research. Azad’s team had diligently been working overtime for the sake of the cause. They too were w
ell aware of the historical and spiritual significance of their work, and the timely emphasis that was being placed on it by the mullahs. The Mahdi was here after all, and everyone was eagerly looking forward to the day that He was known to all and not just his main public conduit, President Samani.

  Azad was only twenty-eight years old, but he knew he was living out his calling and serving Allah in the highest way possible. He was confident that the research he was spearheading would help to defeat the infidels. To demolish the cancer that was the west. To finally eliminate the Zionists and the Americans. His team felt the same way. They hated the Jews just as much as he did and were ready for not only a Caliphate, but one that was primarily guided by the superior Aryan blood of Persia.

  Azad was still wearing his lab coat as he scanned his ID card and left the plant. It had been a long day, a twelve-hour race with very little time to eat or use the facilities. Azad was looking forward to retreating this evening to his cousin Hamid’s house to meet with his brothers in the Neo Iranian Nazi Party.

  He had joined the group, along with his cousin, when he was twenty-four years old after a period of intense study and introspection. It was around this time that Azad truly embraced his Aryan roots and the Aryan roots of his people. He also became more and more versed on the eschatology of Shia Islam, particularly those who embraced the anticipation of the great Twelfth Imam. The merging of his fully ignited religious fervor and his newfound deep commitment to preserving his racial heritage had proven to be a life force in Azad that was full of promise and ambition.